Saturday, December 1

It's going to be a wonderfully slow day, finally. Since I moved into this place I'd been feeling very restless and walled in. I think I've finally begun to learn how to stare off into space and zone out comfortably enough. Since I landed in Calcutta I've only met scared or indifferent dogs. None of them would respond to whistling or calling. Last night, armed with greasy egg rolls I became firm friends with two beautiful ladies who were kind enough to let me rub their stomachs and vent some of my longing for my own babies. I hope they're fine and warm. And I hope they know I'm constantly sending them love.Today is the day I lounge. I walked around Calcutta yesterday and I think I quite like the place. It's filthy and crowded and has the strangest traffic I've ever seen, but it's a friendly place. I've been working around the clock all week and it feels like it's passed by in an uneven sleep-clogged blur. I'm sitting by myself and I'm content. And slightly panicking about all the studying I need to get a move on NOW, but I'll ignore that for at least half of today. It's been a while since I've stopped to do nothing and opportunities like this are not to be passed on.*My brain is finally becoming pleasant goop. I can slowly feel it sliding down into the back of my head, slouching all the way. I'm torturing myself with delicious thoughts of holidays and bed-ins. I'm suddenly craving buttered toast. That's a childhood association with holidays.*I bought My Name is Red by Orhan Pamuk yesterday while strolling about Calcutta. I read about thirty pages and passed out last night. A book! A new interesting book that has the potential and promise to occupy me all weekend long. I never imagined I'd need to get away from Delhi to be able to do this again. Ah shit. I need to study this weekend. Dang. I'll figure out a way to do both, of course.*

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About Me

Murphy, the patron saint of petulant pretty boys everywhere, the compulsive rubber of her face into soft kitten bellies, the debilitated drinker of spirits, one in heart and soul with chinese food, writes predominantly about herself and believes that it really ought to stop.